The Curse Of Azkaban
by ChangingbacktoBellamort500
Summary: Every second at Azkaban is the same. All Bellatrix has is the faith that Voldemort will free her. Written for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round Four.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round Four.**

**Beater 2 Kenmare Kestrals: Adverb chosen Faithfully.**

**Chosen prompts: 13. (word) disaster, 14. (word) swollen,8. (word) frog.**

Faithfully Bellatrix waited in Azkaban, in the cold and dark.

Days, weeks and years waiting for the Dark Lord to return, to set her free.

The belief that he'd return kept her alive, some of the others didn't believe. And they withered and died.

She wished they had kept their faith. Not because she cared about them, but because their bodies were left stinking in their cells for days, sometimes weeks.

The stench would fill Azkaban, it always reminded her of the time her cousin Regulus had kept a dead frog under his bed for two months; his room stank for ages and she was the only one who'd set foot in it other than him.

She could no longer picture Regulus's face, she could only remember the smell of the dead frog and his room.

Her dark mark had started to burn, the Dark Lord would come soon and then the coldness would go away.

She'd tried to escape once to find him and the whole thing had ended in disaster.

But it'd be, different when the Dark Lord came to free her. It wouldn't be disastrous, but glorious.

She couldn't help imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of the sun or how good a bath would feel.

She tried to summon up an image of Narcissa, but all she could remember was a swollen belly and blond hair.

Bellatrix dug her nails into her palm to try and remember why her sister's belly had been swollen.

The words pregnant, had a son sprung into her head.

Memories bubbled under the surface of coldness, Lucius, announcing to her and the others that her sister had given birth to a boy. The Dark Lord, congratulating him.

Anger coursed through her body, Lucius hadn't stayed faithful. He'd denied everything he did.

She'd endured Azkaban, endured hell and Lucius remained free. It didn't matter the Dark Lord would reward her for her faith, she was sure of that.

All those who denied the things they did would suffer and she'd be rewarded greatly.

When he comes, why hasn't he come yet?.

It hurts her that he hasn't come yet, she's waited for so long that she has forgotten how long she's been stuck in Azkaban.

She'd stopped scratching down how many days on the wall after the first year had passed.

Bellatrix bites the inside of her cheek and starts repeating the mantra "He'll free me," inside her head, she's used that mantra since her first day in Azkaban.

It calms her, like a lullaby calms a screaming baby.

The anxiety she had felt rising, washed away and Bellatrix stopped biting her cheek.

She rested her head against the wall and focused on the screaming from the others, but only momentarily.

Then her mind drifted back towards her possible freedom.

It was hard to choose what to do first, what food she should consume first.

Her mind was becoming jumbled with flashes of images of long past family dinners pushing their way to the front of her scattered broken memories.

She didn't know whether she had liked or hated those dinners, the memories were foggy. Just barely retained in her head.

That's what Azkaban did to its prisoners, make them forget. Turn everything foggy and cold.

The only thing she had left was her unwavering faith.

It helped with the cold. It couldn't stop the cold, but it helped.

When she was free she'd never feel the cold again, it'd be warm all the time.

Never again would a Dementor take away her happiness.

Bellatrix started laughing, but she didn't why she was laughing. The sound of her laughter sounded odd to her.

It sounded insane, was she insane now? or had she always been insane?. Bellatrix didn't know which one was the truth.

The Dark Lord would know. When he freed her, she was going to ask him.

The other inmates were shouting and howling, Bellatrix wanted them to shut up. She needed them to shut up.

She was trying to remember how long her dark mark had been burning, hours or days; maybe it had been burning for weeks.

Every second felt the same at Azkaban, it was hard to keep track of time.

One second felt like a thousand and sometimes a thousand felt like a second. Bellatrix's head hurt, she hated how jumbled and confused her mind had become.

Her mind was no longer able to concrete on anything long, everything was hazy and broken in her head.

It was their fault, Dumbledore's and his previous band of Mudbloods, half-bloods and blood traitors.

They sent her to hell, she'd make them pay when the Dark Lord freed her.

If they thought things she had done, before were terrible, the things she do to them when she was free was going to be a hundred times worse.

Everyone of them would suffer, the way she'd suffered.

Bellatrix began to rock back and forwards, whether it was out of excitement of what she was going to do or anger over how she'd suffered; Bellatrix wasn't sure.

Maybe it was a combination of both.

She rocked back and forwards for what seemed hours, but in reality was a few minutes.

But to her everything either seemed an entirety or a second, that was the curse of Azkaban.

It was the curse of years of Dementors punishing you.

There was no longer time, warmth or rational thinking for Bellatrix.

There was the desire to have freedom, the desire that the Dark Lord would come and get her out of hell.

But until he freed her, she'd wait faithfully.

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